


our bodies touch and the angels cry

by neutrophilic



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20347084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutrophilic/pseuds/neutrophilic
Summary: It was becoming more clear to Aziraphale that Crowley had put the moment where Before had divided into After when Adam had run off Satan and called off the apocalypse, rather than when Aziraphale had said yes to lunch.





	our bodies touch and the angels cry

**Author's Note:**

> FOR #10
> 
> Not a wholly accurate title because technically, it's the demon that's probably going to be doing some crying.

Aziraphale's nerves hit him all at once after they'd decamped back to his bookshop. The meal, of course, had been lovely—the food delectable, the company better—and he'd spent the whole time so tremendously happy that the implications of everything he'd agreed to hadn't quite hit him. Not that he regretted his choices, not if they led to Crowley by his side in a miraculously restored bookshop. He could quibble with the fact that Adam had chosen to restore his wine cellar based apparently on a list of the most expensive wines in the world, rather than by what Aziraphale had so painstakingly picked out and laid in, but that seemed rather low of him.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said from his boneless sprawl across the whole sofa. He kept swirling the wine in his glass absentmindedly.

When they'd first arrived back at his bookshop, Aziraphale had had a half-formed plan to sit next to him on said sofa and explore everything he’d said yes to together. But Crowley had immediately flung his entire body down, leaving no room for Aziraphale, before shouting wine requests at him. Crowley had barely even teased him for uncharacteristically getting out the 2012 Domaine Leroy Chambertin Grand Cru that he'd asked for instead of the 1990 Domaine Leroy Chambertin Grand Cru that Aziraphale would have preferred.

It was baffling. Crowley was acting as if nothing had changed. Everything had changed! Aziraphale had said yes. Shouldn't Crowley be bonelessly sprawled out across his bed by now?

Perhaps Crowley wanted to go slow but that didn't seem right either. Unless he wanted to go slow for Aziraphale's sake. The thought made Aziraphale feel sick with guilt on top of anxious, a bit tipsy, and still resoundingly happy. Not a comfortable combination. But the words to reassure Crowley that he absolutely didn't need to wait any longer wouldn't come. Yes, everything had changed, but it might be possible to shove down some of that everything again and ignore it for another millennia or two.

"You really aren't listening to me," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale got distracted from his point watching Crowley’s Adam's apple bob as he drained the rest of his glass. Crowley had once gotten quite drunk and ranted about how stupid it was that the thing was named after Adam when he'd convinced Eve to eat the apple in the first place and hadn't appreciated Aziraphale's response at all.

"Sorry," Aziraphale said, fumbling for the bottle to refill Crowley's glass. "Please continue. Or rather, please start over."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "I dunno if I feel like continuing when you're not paying attention."

Aziraphale looked at him pleadingly. He was paying attention, truly he was. If this was all what Crowley wanted to do, then shouldn't he give it to him? After all, Crowley had gone out of his way for centuries, for millennia, really, to give Aziraphale every single thing that he genuinely wanted. Well, not everything, Crowley had never been in the habit of giving Aziraphale books. Or he hadn't often been in the habit, though sometimes Aziraphale would come across a beautiful new volume of poetry dreadfully misshelved and know exactly who the culprit must be. The feeling of guilt wrenched again at his stomach.

"Alright, alright, but I'm skipping all the buildup this time," Crowley relented. "I went by that restaurant you've been on about for decades last night, the one with the kreplach. Anyways, they all knew me there."

"Naturally, they knew who you were. You were in my body."

"Not me you," Crowley said, vehemently, “_me_ me. The waiter asked me how my friend Mr. Crowley was doing. And, when the chef came by to make sure everything was to my liking, he also asked about me."

"Yes, well," Aziraphale said. It was just that eating by himself, while delightful, was occasionally lonely. It was natural for him to want to talk to the people that made such wonderful food and also natural for his thoughts to turn to his most common dining companion.

But, he didn't have to come at things slantwise any longer. He'd talked about Crowley with the humans because he missed him and wished he'd been there to talk to instead of about.

After way too long of a pause, Aziraphale continued. "What did you say?"

"I told them I was just spiffy. What else was I going to say when pretending to be you? Why have you been telling humans we're friends?" Crowley somehow became even more supine.

It was truly impressive and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to be wholly impressed, but the whole bent of the conversation was getting very uncomfortable for him.

"I didn't tell them anything. They just assumed," Aziraphale said, and then in a rush, because he couldn't leave it there, "and we _are_ friends anyways."

"I told you. What have I been telling you for centuries?"

Crowley smiled a little genuinely pleased smile that Aziraphale didn't get to see very often. It took just a bit of the sting off Crowley promptly agreeing with the idea that they were friends. Clearly they were friends, but that certainly wasn't all they were to each other. Aziraphale couldn't have misread everything.

"What did you do last night after I left?" Crowley asked. "I still don't know why you made me leave straight away. I nearly fell straight down into the street when I was getting used to your legs."

"We needed to get into character," Aziraphale explained again. "And I wouldn't have stayed at your place."

Crowley stopped smiling. "Obviously."

"Well, I wouldn't have stayed then," Aziraphale said, "but now I might. Not that you've invited me. Not that you have to invite me." It was becoming more clear to Aziraphale that Crowley had put the moment where Before had divided into After when Adam had run off Satan and called off the apocalypse, rather than when Aziraphale had said yes to lunch.

"If you liked it so much, of course you can stay over," Crowley said, looking slightly puzzled. "But you never seemed to like it before."

Aziraphale, to put it bluntly, hated Crowley's flat. Hated it. He'd disliked every remodel and every version of every place Crowley had ever lived in. It was strange to him how he could like someone—could love someone—so much and loathe their home to such an extent. Not that Aziraphale had had much of an opportunity to visit Crowley, not with their sides liable to just check up at any time. He'd only ever been by to Crowley’s flat in its current incarnation once before. And then he'd only been allowed in just past the door to stare around at all the oppressively dark walls. Crowley had been rummaging around looking for the anti-christ timeline that Hastur had foisted off on him during his semi-annual performance review. Crowley had never found it and had suggested drinks instead at a pub down the way. Aziraphale had taken him up on it at once, pleased to get out of there.

"It's just a little," Aziraphale groped for something that wouldn't be a lie, but that wouldn't insult Crowley too badly, "empty. But your art is nice.”

Crowley waved it off and adjusted his sunglasses.

Actually, Aziraphale hadn’t known what to make of most of Crowley’s art. The signed sketches from various great masters had seemed similar enough in concept to Aziraphale’s own collection of autographed books, but the rest of it. Well, he had seen that statue of an angel and a demon trapped in an eternal struggle before and had thought it quite funny, but he had been very, very drunk at the time. The motif along Crowley’s desk might also have been amusing, but in combination with Crowley’s choice to decorate his bathroom solely with winged cherubs, it was a lot for him to deal with all on his own.

The lectern rescued from a bombed out church was also overwhelming.

Aziraphale had known he loved Crowley since the start. But he was an angel, it was who he was. He’d first grasped that his love for Crowley was an issue back in the early days of the Arrangement. During one of Gabriel’s interminable team building exercises—something humans had, very regrettably, gotten from Heaven rather than the other way around—Gabriel had made the whole Host list off the very worst thing they could think of that they still loved. _Crowley_, Aziraphale had thought immediately, then, _but Crowley isn’t the very worst thing; the very worst thing wouldn’t have smuggled me an whole crate of oranges last month_. Aziraphale had instantly resolved to not think about it any further. When it was his turn he said he loved pustules, even though Michael had already said that. Even now, his thoughts shied away from the church. How it had suddenly become blindingly apparent that not thinking about his love for Crowley had not fixed anything, but that he’d also gone and fallen in love with him somewhere along the way. He’d been so overcome that he’d reread Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded three whole times in 1941. Love had made him so dreadfully sentimental.

Aziraphale moved slowly. He’d only just grasped that he might be able to do something about his love last night, walking around Crowley’s flat, contemplating the decoration and pretending that Crowley was still there. By all rights, it should take him at least a few years to actually turn those thoughts into actions, but Aziraphale didn’t want to wait even a second longer.

“Crowley,” he started. “You must know that I’d like anywhere as long as it was with you.”

The perfect shy smile from earlier returned to Crowley’s beloved face. “Could have told you that too.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, my dear.” Aziraphale forced his nerves down. “I feel that way because I love you.”

“Nah,” Crowley said, waving his glass dismissively. “Loving me is an angel thing. You like to be around me because you like me.”

So Crowley hadn’t known. It made it all the more imperative that Aziraphale be understood properly immediately.

“No, that’s a general kind of feeling. I love you specifically.”

Crowley looked like he’d remembered that his body should have bones and had gone very tense on the sofa.

“You’ve always been so easy for me to love,” Aziraphale continued, but his words faltered again. It would be so much more manageable if he could show Crowley what he meant.

“My dear,” he tried, “would you mind terribly sitting up?”

Crowley’s throat worked. “Why?”

“So I can sit by you, if that’s alright.”

Crowley gathered himself and did as he was bid. Aziraphale abandoned his drink, got up and joined Crowley on the sofa. It really was shockingly uncomfortable; he really shouldn’t have waved off Crowley’s numerous complaints about it as jokes. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and all the stuffing and then some was restored to the cushions. Much better.

Aziraphale began again, gazing at his sunglasses. “You must know how lovable you are. How generous you are. How good. How kind. Oh, I barely know where to start listing your virtues. I believe you have them all.”

After a long pause, Crowley said, “I don’t—”

Aziraphale didn’t mind. He could wait. 

“I’m not good. Not by any definition,” Crowley said, his face closing off.

“You are,” Aziraphale insisted. “You are so good to me, even when I haven’t deserved it.”

Crowley’s hand trembled on his wine glass. Aziraphale gently coaxed the glass from him and set it on the table. He then took Crowley’s hand like he’d been longing to do for longer than he would ever know.

“Is this acceptable?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded his head. His hand was still shaking in Aziraphale’s. Emboldened, Aziraphale reached out and cupped his dear, dear face in his other palm and stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. Crowley seemed to be working through some overwhelming emotion, and he sympathized completely. They’d rarely touched—a few handshakes and steadying arms to lean against when the alcohol became too much barely counted. Aziraphale never wanted to stop now they’d started.

His thumb came up against the bottom of Crowley’s sunglasses. “My dearest, would you take these off?”

With his left hand, Crowley reached up, removed them, and then lobbed them down an aisle. Aziraphale would normally reprimand him for not being mindful of his books, but Aziraphale would never say anything against an action that led to his lovely eyes being revealed.

Slowly, torn between his desire to never stop staring into Crowley’s eyes and his need to touch Crowley more, he leaned in and kissed Crowley. Crowley made a small sound of surprise, then opened his mouth, pliant. Aziraphale relinquished his hold on Crowley’s hand to put his fingers in Crowley’s hair. Six thousand years, and he’d never felt it. His mouth, his hair, it was all just as soft as Aziraphale had imagined.

He pulled at Crowley’s hair slightly, and Crowley leaned into it, his mouth completely slack, stretching out his long throat. Aziraphale obligingly kissed down the line of his neck. He could feel Crowley’s heart thrumming overtime against his lips. He bit at it gently and Crowley made another wonderful choked off sound. Aziraphale wanted to leave a mark—a clear sign for Crowley that he was loved—and so he did. Everyone who looked at him was going to see his throat and know that he’d let someone suck a line of bruises into his skin. If anyone from their former sides saw Crowley, they’d know at once who’d done it. Aziraphale liked that idea so much that he left another few just for good measure.

The collar of Crowley’s shirt was getting in Aziraphale’s way. “Would you mind?” Aziraphale asked, pulling Crowley’s shirt away from his neck.

Crowley’s immediately rendered miracle left them both naked. That hadn’t been Aziraphale’s intent, but he couldn’t complain about the outcome. Crowley nude and spread out on his sofa was much better than he ever pictured. There were so many more places he wanted to set his mouth on and explore. Aziraphale kissed the palm of Crowley’s hand, the curve of his ribs, the inside of his thighs, and his nipples all in turn, drawing more and better noises out of him at every new location.

Finally, Aziraphale propped himself up over Crowley and considered what he most wanted to do next. It was difficult, because he couldn’t do what he normally did when the answer to what he wanted was everything all at once and order everything on the dessert menu. He would have to chose what was most urgent, what would be first for them. It was also difficult because Crowley laid out before him was so distracting. Crowley’s skin had reddened so well against his mouth. Every part of him was perfectly formed, especially his cock, flushed and hard against his stomach. Crowley had flung his arm over his eyes at some point, and it felt vital for Crowley to see exactly how Aziraphale felt in this moment: desperate and desperate to show it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, my dear, what would you most like me to do?”

Crowley removed his arm and grabbed at Aziraphale, pulling him in for a frantic kiss. Crowley’s hands clutched at Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, his fingertips digging into exactly where Aziraphale’s wings would manifest. Crowley broke the kiss and gasped, “whatever. Whatever you want.”

That was exactly the right answer. Aziraphale raised himself back up to reposition himself, soliciting a bereft sound from Crowley. Aziraphale petted at his stomach in apology, before taking Crowley’s cock in hard and placing a kiss right on the tip. Then, he opened his mouth and swallowed him down. He was quite out of practice; it was so good that he didn’t actually need to breathe or pretend to breathe for a human bed-partner while he remembered exactly how to hold his lips to best effect. Crowley smelled simply wonderful, and he relished his salty, bitter taste against his tongue. He began to move, taking Crowley deeper and deeper every time. 

Crowley’s hips kept shifting in tiny arrhythmic movements. When Aziraphale realized that Crowley was trying so fiercely to hold himself still but was too overcome to master himself completely, he used his free arm to hold him down. Crowley jerked against him futilely and then let out a great sob. Aziraphale, who’d had millennial of practice avoiding how he felt and was using every bit of his hard-won expertise to ignore what his own body was feeling, had to grind himself against the bed at the sound.

Crowley started shoving at Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Please. Please or I’ll—“

He pulled off and said, “has it ever occurred to you that might be exactly what I want?”

Crowley made a noise that sounded like a yes and stopped trying to push him away. Aziraphale took him back down, loving the feeling of Crowley stretching his mouth. Crowley didn’t last much longer before he shuddered against Aziraphale, and his taste flooded Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale savored every last drop.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, sounding absolutely wrecked.

Aziraphale had heard Crowley say his name in any number of ways and any number of contexts, but never like this. It tore through him, awakening his every urge all at once. He felt lightheaded with desire and moved so he could kiss Crowley again and again. It was a relief when Crowley’s hand, slippery with the results of some miracle, enclosed around his cock, just exactly tightly enough so Aziraphale could thrust against him. Crowley’s other hand traced tenderly against his spine and the knowledge of just how much Crowley loved him was his complete undoing.

Eventually, once he’d recovered enough to think clearly, Aziraphale miracled them upstairs into his musty old bed before freshening it all up, feeling tremendously indulgent.

“At least it’s not tartan,” Crowley said, eyeing the celestial blue sheets.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to respond and gathered Crowley back up into his arms.

Later, after Aziraphale had thought Crowley had fallen asleep, Crowley said, “I love you too, you know.”

Aziraphale smiled into the back of Crowley’s neck. “I do, my dearest.” He felt so absolutely filled with love at that moment that he wouldn’t have been surprised if Upstairs could detect it radiating off of him. But really, the only being in the whole universe that he needed to feel the strength of his love was right there in bed with him, and Aziraphale rather thought that he’d already made his point thoroughly. Though, if there was any doubt, Aziraphale would delight in telling him again and again and again, until all of the stars that Crowley had placed in the sky winked out.


End file.
